Star, stable, shepherds, angels—and a crying baby in the living room. This year, Christmas will not just be explained, but experienced. A Christmas article of a different kind.
Looks like I did it again: shoved one of my to-do items in the drawer for “later”—and then promptly forgot about it. I was supposed to have written an article for Christmas. Now the weekend has come, my laptop is open, time is short, and I find myself staring at an empty screen.
I think back to my previous job in the media and advertising world, which was always associated with the pressure to deliver even faster. Advent was peak season—not for peace and quiet, but for consumption. And things always had to be revved up: it was the time to launch spur-of-the-moment campaigns, calm down panicked customers, and nail down as many deals as possible just before the end of the year—as if the world depended on it.
Today I shake my head at this way of life. How can anyone rush through life under so much pressure? And yet my head-shaking does nothing to get me any further—the cursor is still blinking on the empty screen as if to say, “Come on. A little Bethlehem always does the trick: throw a star on top, some straw underneath, and off you go …”
Performance on every level, even in faith
But maybe that’s just the point: this feeling of always having to perform—at your job, in daily life, and sometimes even in your faith. As Christians we are quick to fall into the trap: if only I do enough, pray enough, do enough things right, then … Well, then what?
We turn our love for our neighbour into a project: checklist, timeframe, and at the end we check off a box inside our heads. And at times I feel like it’s not really only about my neighbour, but rather my own need to prove that I am a “good Christian”. And that is precisely the error in my thinking: grace is not a reward for devout achievements. The Bible is unequivocal when it states: “For by grace you have been saved … not [by] works” (Ephesians 2: 8–9). And clearer still: “Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to His mercy He saved us” (Titus 3: 5).
And yet we are all too familiar with the pattern: act, deliver, check the box. It feels safe and secure, but it makes us restless—because it makes us think we have to pay the bill for grace instead of simply accepting it as a gift.
My thoughts are broken by a faint squeaking sound, like a warning. It is not long before the noise turns into a shriek that I have come to know all too well by now: alert, impatient, and quite determined.
Efficiency falls apart when you’re dealing with babies
It does not take long to identify the shrill noises: our baby is making itself heard from the crib. Of course. I fold up my laptop, go into the living room and lean over to look at him. A small, offended-looking face is staring back at me—its brow furrowed and its expression stern. The message is clear: “This is not going to do at all, Daddy!” Okay, what is it this time? A full diaper? Are you hungry? Does something hurt?
I pick him up. And the mood changes abruptly. First, there is that brief moment of astonishment—and then his best laugh. Pure happiness. There is no “Because you …” no “If you …” There is simply joy, because I am holding him close to me.
I carry him through the apartment. He beams at me in complete calm. Then I lay him back down into the crib so that I can finally get back to my article. His expression changes instantly: thick tears roll down his cheeks, his lower lip quivers, the corners of his mouth turn downwards—a drama unfolding in slow motion.
So I pick him up again. I sit down on the sofa with him in my arms. After a few breaths, he settles down again and contentment returns. What he needs is not a perfect solution, not a music box, not a favourite stuffed toy. He needs my nearness.
“I’m pretty sure the baby Jesus wasn’t this exhausting,” I say. Our son gurgles as if to say he knows better. And I begin to imagine how it might have been for Mary and Joseph: with a child who cries, who wants to be carried, who needs to feel the nearness of parents—in the context of a confined, simple reality. God becomes human. Not big and strong, but small—in the form of a baby.
Jesus does not start off with great deeds, but with a simple breath, just like any other human being. At first, He is simply there. A faint noise. A body that needs warmth. Shepherds come along, later some wise men too—not because the child already brought or did anything, but rather because God is revealing Himself, and people have set off in search of Him.
The remarkable thing here is not any sort of accomplishment, but rather His mere presence. The mere fact that He is with us changes everything. The stable becomes a place where God dwells—and Bethlehem becomes the start of a whole new story.
A big little love
Jesus started out as a baby. The image is more than touching—it is our first lesson: a relationship that is not a means to an end. Nearness not as reward. Nearness as life. And God came to us simply to be there.
Later on, Jesus would learn a great deal: how to speak, walk, and work—perhaps even how to do carpentry like Joseph. He would meet people, listen to them, comfort them, give them hope. His “achievement”? Basically: being there—to the very end.
And suddenly my own pressure to perform seems small. Christmas reminds us that God’s love does not come to us only once we deliver. It makes itself particularly felt when we cannot deliver—when we lack the strength, when we are imperfect. All we have to do is make some room for it.
A baby teaches patience—or in other words: it forces us to slow down. It cannot be “efficiently” calmed. This is something we learn quickly. Here love is not productive—it is simply present.
In the end, I almost feel as though this little bundle in my arms is embracing and carrying me around. There is more love here than I dare believe: patience, tenderness, a kind word, deep peace. Not something you can learn by training. More like a spring that overflows as soon you get closer. And I suddenly realise: the best in me cannot be measured by performance. It comes about through relationship—through a simple, silent “I am here”.
Those who follow Christ can start with the baby in the manger, a place where we human beings do not have to optimise performance, but simply see our existence as a gift. Where we can accept, support, and value one another—without any ulterior motives, but simply out of love.
I’m postponing my article for another year. Christmas doesn’t need perfect sentences. It needs us to open our arms. And it needs this nearness. If heaven tastes like anything, it tastes exactly like this.